


You Like Your Boys Insane

by DoreyG



Category: Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (2012), Thor (2011)
Genre: Because nnngh Hiddles' hands, Bodies and Body Parts, Community: kink_bingo, Everybody is messed up here, Fairly miserable all around, He gives me too many feels, Loki being broken all over the place, M/M, Particularly the hands, handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-20
Updated: 2012-05-20
Packaged: 2017-11-05 17:38:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/409182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoreyG/pseuds/DoreyG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But he <i>can’t</i> pity Loki, for if he showed even the briefest desire to do so that armour would snap right back into place and the man (godthing) would never ever come near him again, and so he takes the second best option. Takes those hands, those terribly skilled hands no matter how often Loki insists that all his strength is in his words, and gently <i>tugs</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Like Your Boys Insane

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Bodies and Body Parts square of my Kink_Bingo, focusing on the hands. Largely inspired by the fact that Hiddles' hands are _so gorgeous oh god_. And, er, I also shipped absolutely everybody in this movie - but I suppose these two jerks came out sort of on top?

Loki’s hands are the most fascinating things he’s ever allowed on his body. And that’s saying something, considering _all_ the things he’s allowed on his body over the years (supermodels, the suit, more supermodels, several extremely attractive engineers who spluttered and flushed when he asked them out for a drink…)

It’s something that deserves saying, though.

For the man, god (insane, shattered, occasionally-hayfever-suffering _wreck_ of a vaguely godlike thing), is fascinating himself: with a mind like a bag of cats, yes (thank you Bruce). And a psyche so broken that it’s a miracle he’s not picking shards of Loki out of his hands every time he dares to get close (thank you his own mind). And the ability to sneeze loud enough to make half of New York throw themselves to the floor while screaming “what the fucking _fuck_?” (Point set and match to _his own mind oh yeah_.)

(…Unless he starts wanting to give flowers credit any time soon.)

And he’s even more fascinating without his armour. His leather. His reindeer horns. His straps that take _hours_ to undo (even longer, if Loki distracts him with chuckling and then he distracts himself with something shiny). Even his silver words, spluttered away to hurt uncertainty as he stands in the middle of the sparse bedroom and offers every single bit of himself up.

…Every single bit he has left.

Every single bit that he’s stapled back together with his own shaking hands. Uncertain and unwilling and so basely _uninterested_ that nothing seems to be in the right place.

(And he pities the man (god ( _Thing_ ))-)

But he _can’t_ pity Loki, for if he showed even the briefest desire to do so that armour would snap right back into place and the man (godthing) would never ever come near him again, and so he takes the second best option. Takes those hands, those terribly skilled hands no matter how often Loki insists that all his strength is in his words, and gently _tugs_.

“Come to bed.”

…And it works.

For now.

Loki, somehow, seems even more fragile on his covers. He just lies on his back for a long moment, staring at the ceiling. Only starts _slightly_ when he covers that long, pale body with his own. Only starts _properly_ when he leans in for a kiss – surges into it all broken, brutal edges and _Loki_ , so desperate and angry and determined to prove something that even he doesn’t know.

He’s not surprised when he finds himself on his back. Can only lean into the pillows and take in those desperate, ever so desperate and he’s pretty sure that Loki can’t hide it, eyes hovering above him, “well.”

Loki’s hands smooth over his chest, scratching slightly around the Arc Reactor whenever he remembers, “well?”

“How do you want me tonight?” He can only urge that remembrance onwards, he’s really _past_ wondering if it’s masochism as well as kindness, and lean up on his elbows – tilt his head challengingly and _hiss_ as Loki’s nails scrape to a halt over his ribs, “On my back? On my front? Between your thighs and begging desperately for mercy?”

“…Tempting.”

“Or _maybe_ you want my mouth?” it’s not much, not _anything_ really, but he can trick himself into regarding it as something – let more hisses spill out as Loki’s harsh fingers slowly trail down to dig into his hips, “Or my hand? …Or maybe it’ll be the other way around this time. Y’know, for variety and all that.”

“Variety is good.”

“Exactly,” he can only agree grandly, still tricking himself and _still_ hissing, “so: do you want me to take you on your back or stomach? Or on your side? Or even with my mouth, I _know_ you like my mouth…”

“No.”

“No?”

He doesn’t wince as Loki slowly leans in, stares straight into his eyes. He’s far too used to this now (or far too accepting of the fact that he is, after all, only staring into a mirror) for that to halt him, “I might use _my_ hand today, Stark-“

“Tony.”

“- _Stark_ ,” (And another mirror, as those thin (careworn) lips curve up into something that was once a smile), “how would you like that?”

…He considers for a second before answering, Loki’s hands now pinching down his thighs – leaving little, light flickers of pain that he doesn’t even have to fake hisses at, “it’s not what I like, is it? Freedom is for chumps and communists and utter bastards, as you _said_. What was it you ranted exactly, again? ‘The bright lure of freedom diminishes your life's joy in a mad scramble for power-‘”

“I remember.”

He-

He falls silent.

“But you would like it, wouldn’t you?” As Loki stares down at him, stills those fingers on his thighs, draws in a deep breath (as deep as he _can_ breath, with that cage as surely around his lungs as it is around the rest of him), “I can see it in your eyes. It’d be entirely… _Agreeable_ to you.”

…He nods immediately, in a futile sort of apology.

“And that’s all I need.”

…And Loki moves down.

And the mangodthing’s hands truly _are_ the most fascinating things he’s allowed on his body – without sarcasm, without lies. They curve around his length contemplatively for only a moment before twisting and picking up a rhythm: slow and teasing, promising everything and delivering hardly _anything_. A truly… _Mischievous_ grip.

…He almost feels ashamed of himself.

But it’s _true_ , yet again without sarcasm or lies. Loki somehow manages to approach a handjob like he approaches everything else: slowly, teasingly, almost thoroughly (but rushing too much to quite manage) and-

Desperately.

Always desperately.

The mangodthing manages a few minutes of torture, far sweeter than his usual sort, before tightening his grip out of his own volition: pumping harder, faster, _angrier_ with his entire body tipping forwards yet again and his eyes dark as he stares ever _down_ at nothing in particular.

He meets the quickening of the pace with his own helpless speed. Lifts his hips, groans a little in encouragement, half considers fisting the sheets before deciding to keep his hands where they are – under Loki’s dark, possessive, faintly pleading gaze.

The pace increases yet again-

And Loki’s hands _are_ desperate on his body, Loki’s eyes _are_ desperate above him, Loki’s erection _is_ desperate against his hip. He’s starting to snap, to shudder, to shake – the force of his need pulling his everything out of him: sharp and angry and painful and so _sad_ -

So-

_So_ -

Ah _fuck_.

He would analyze those emotions further, he’s not as good as Pepper at analyzing such things but he supposes that he must’ve picked up _some_ skills from her, but he’s too busy in his own world at the moment. The world of Loki’s hand around his cock, and Loki’s erection against his hip, and Loki’s eyes meeting his with every pump, and _LokiLokiLoki_ -

_Loki_ …

He rises into every twist of the mangodthing’s wrist, fists his hands hard to avoid burying them in the sheets and keeps his eyes open no matter _what_.

He tries to shift his hip to brush against Loki’s own cock, grins shakily every time he manages it (hears the answering whine) and lets his choking breath blow out between those clenched teeth.

He meets Loki’s eyes, sees them crack _wide_ open-

And screeches.

And _comes_ , a few sticky pulses before he’s slumping back against the pillows and shaking his way through and finally permitting himself to pant out loud because he thinks he _deserves_ it after an orgasm like that.

…It’s a few moments, possibly minutes, later when he finally manages to lift his head and watch Loki through his eyelashes. The mangodthing is peering down at him with an odd look on his face: heartbreak and helpless anger and something almost like, though he’s never been the best at divining _that_ sort of thing, affection-

And then he notices.

And immediately bends to working his own cock, batting off any attempts to help with that angry kind of focus that lends a jagged sharpness to _all_ his actions.

…It, almost gratifyingly, takes only a few seconds for Loki to come after all the encouragement that he’s already received.

_Almost_ : as Loki slumps down to his chest, holding back something that could be either a laugh or a sob, and shakes his way through – eyes closed, free hand desperate against his shoulder as he tries to neither cackle nor cry and somehow manages to fail at both at exactly the same time.

…He-

Loki slides off him the moment he remembers himself, reaches for the tissues by the bed with an edged movement that obviously signifies that armor snapping back into place. He can only sigh, shakily prop himself up again – take those tissues from Loki’s pale (wrecked, and he won’t lie about the lazy furl of pleasure at that) hands and lead the clean up process because nobody else is in a fit state to do so.

…The mangodth- the armored thing stares at him for a long moment after they’re both clean, like he’d rather like a kiss or a hug or _any_ show of base affection.

But only shrugs.

Manages a ghastly grin.

_Disappears_ , so suddenly and utterly that he’s half tempted to grope desperately at the air before he remembers _himself_ and forces everything to slow back down.

…For Loki’s hands are the most _broken_ things he’s ever allowed near his body.

And he has to accept that, as he swings his legs off the bed with a sigh, and orders JARVIS to prepare a shower or a bath or _something_ as soon as mechanically possible.


End file.
